“I didn’t touch Hazel Collins.”
“Her daughter found her dead in her chair when she got home this morning. Fortunately, it was after the ambulance had collected you. Only you, me, Danny, and a commendably ambitious young DC know that you were alone in her flat with her, subjecting her to harassment. Would you like to keep it that way?”
“You wouldn’t want that kind of publicity.”
“I’m going to be getting bad publicity anyway over two historic investigations, and I believe you know what I’m referring to. If I can be seen to act decisively and weed out a very bad seed, it might help to mitigate that.”
Fletcher lets his head fall back onto the pillows. He shuts his eyes. A fog is rolling down.
“They say you’re probably concussed, John, but I suspect the cogs are turning nevertheless. You should bear in mind what the relative judicial punishments might be for the offenses we’re discussing.”
Fletcher makes a final try. If he’s going down, Felix should, too. “Felix Abernathy is involved in these murders. I have notes. I wrote it down. I found a connection last night.”
Tremain laughs. “Give up, John. Small fry like you will never take down a man like him. Felix Abernathy was nowhere near the estate when the murders took place.”
“How do you know?”
Tremain smiles. “Your naiveté astounds me. Are you a total fantasist? Did you think you were the only person to have good contacts? Always the puppet, never the puppet master. How has that been for you over the past two decades?”
Tremain stands, straightens his jacket. “You realize I lost a brother-in-law as well as a fine colleague after you ruined Smail? It broke my wife’s sister.” He leans over Fletcher and pats his ribs hard. Fletcher cries out in pain. “Let Danny know what you want to do,” Tremain says and leaves the room.
Fletcher’s final humiliation comes in the form of fat, childlike tears that roll down his cheeks unstoppably. He doesn’t think he has cried since he cradled Charlie Paige in his arms. Orange poppies—so bright—begin to crowd his vision. When the nurse reenters the room he sees only a smudge.
“Your colleague said you might need some more pain relief?” she asks.
His only response is a groan that sounds helpless even to his ears.
Chapter 28
Jess parks beside the arches beneath the Temple Meads station forecourt.
“I won’t be long,” she says to Erica. “Then I’m going to take you somewhere nice because I want to have a talk.”
“You’re being weird, Mum. What’s going on?”
“Give me twenty minutes. Then I’ll explain everything, I promise.”
Jess gets out of the car and her heels clatter as she crosses the cobblestone courtyard. She walks past an artisan bakery built into the arches. It is shutting its doors for the day, but a few hipster types linger on the benches outside. She approaches a trendy set of offices converted from an old warehouse. Jess can’t see a huge slice of sky because the courtyard is hemmed in by buildings, but even so she catches a glimpse of two Dishlicker balloons drifting by. Yet more balloons have filled the skies this afternoon; people gathered on the station’s forecourt are gazing at them. The Dishlicker stunt has made national news.
The Dishlicker Productions office is easy to find. Their greyhound logo is emblazoned across the floor-to-ceiling glass at their entrance. A young man lets Jess in. He is working on the ground floor at a glass desk alongside an androgynous colleague. They both wear the tightest drainpipe jeans. Each has a tiny laptop open in front of them.
“I’m here to see Cody,” Jess says. Her confidence is absolute. She doesn’t have to fake it. “I’m Jessica Paige. It’s time I told him something.”
She watches with amusement as Cody’s assistant fails to disguise his surprise before jogging smartly up a spiral metal staircase that threatens to snag his coltish limbs. She doesn’t bother to wait, but follows him up.
Cody Swift is sitting behind a large desk in a room that has a wall of glass overlooking the cobbles and some of the station’s more impressive wrought-iron Victorian architecture. It’s not quite Felix’s setup, but it’s not bad. Cody is on the phone, but hangs up when he recognizes her. As she crosses the space toward him, he takes on a wary expression, as if they were two boxers entering a ring.
“Thank you,” Cody says to the underling, who takes the hint, although he looks as though he would dearly love to witness their exchange. “Would you like to sit?” Cody asks. He looks uncertain. His chair scrapes noisily on the polished concrete floor as he stands and gestures toward the seat on the other side of his desk.
“No, thank you.” Jess feels heady, but poised. Adrenaline is coursing through her.
“How can I help you? It’s so lovely to see you.”
Cody is trying for good manners. Naturally. Nice try, Jess thinks. An image of a younger Cody runs through her mind: freckle-nosed, sunburned, and fierce, accepting coins from Felix in return for a drug delivery made on the estate, and haggling for more.
“Here is fine,” she says.
“Do you mind if I sit?”
“Do what you like.”
He eases himself back down into his seat.
“Where’s Maya’s desk?” she asks.
“What?”
“I thought you and Maya worked together. I was wondering where she sits?”
“She works at home.” His smile is plastic. “Anyway, she’s moved on.”
“I’ve done some homework,” she says. “I’ve listened to your podcast, and there’s something I want to ask you about.”
“Go ahead.”
“Newcastle United. The Magpies.”
“What about them?”
She almost smiles at his response, because a sweet little furrow has appeared in his brow, just like it used to. It means he can’t see where this is going yet. Good. “In the podcast, you said you went back to wearing your Magpies shirt after your Atlanta Olympics shirt got ripped.”
He seems to relax a little. “Sure.”
“What color was the Magpies shirt?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“Black and white stripes.”
“So it was the same one you wore all that summer? The one you wore when you came round my flat? The one Felix used to compliment you on?”
“Probably. I can’t remember.”
“Well, that’s a relief, because now I know I’m right.” Jess smiles, big and broad, and like the immature little toerag he is, Cody Swift takes his cue from her and relaxes further. “Okay, well, I’m glad to help.”
Jess walks to the window and gazes out. A shadow from a Dishlicker balloon travels across the cobbles. “Are you sure you don’t want to check with Maya? About the shirt?”
“I don’t think so.” He looks confused.
“Shall we phone her?”
“I told you, she’s moved on.”
“Where did you say she worked again?”
“Maya works at home. Worked at home.”
“She worked at home when you have this lovely office facility here? Really?”
Jess turns around and moves to take the seat in front of Cody. She doesn’t hurry. Cody’s not so jumpy now; in fact he looks like he might be getting pissed off. “Did you have something to tell me? The podcast is technically over, but we could do a special addendum. Your story? It’s not too late. I’m sorry if we came down a bit hard on you in some of the episodes, but this could be a chance to put your side of the story across in your own words.”
“I think I’d be more comfortable talking to Maya. You know, woman to woman.” His Adam’s apple is sharp, Jess thinks, as she watches it travel up and down his throat. “Can we call her?” she asks. “Now?”
“She’s moved on.”
“Surely she’ll take my call to help you out? I really would be more comfortable talking to her.”
Cody’s eyes flick sideways.
“You did that whe
n you were a kid and you were lying,” Jess says.
“Did what?”
“Maya doesn’t exist, does she? You always were a little liar. I think you’ve made up a girlfriend even though you’re supposed to be all grown up now.”
Cody blinks. Jess presses on: “Do you know how I know you made her up? Because nobody in their right mind would be skanky enough to do this podcast with you, knowing the real reason why you were doing it. You’re the lowest of the low. You’ve used us all to set up a bloody business. Nobody like that gets a lovely, supportive girlfriend like Maya, because a person who does something like that is very, very hard to love.”
Cody leans forward. There’s some fire in his eyes now. “You’re right. She doesn’t exist. The podcast needed a personal story to add a bit of threat. We, I, thought it would be stronger that way. Turns out it was a good call, don’t you think?”
“We being you and Felix? I love how you fudged that in your podcast. Never met him before? My ass. You used to follow him around like a shadow whenever you got the chance. You did jobs for him. I remember.”
“Felix speaks very highly of you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey! I was only—”
“No. Shut up. It’s time you stopped blabbing and listened, Cody. I saw you the night Charlie and Scott were killed. You were wearing your Magpies shirt and you snuck out of your flat when everybody thought you were in bed, and nobody noticed you’d gone. ’Course you did. When did you ever do what you were told? What did you see?”
“I was at home asleep.”
“Bollocks. You could have snuck out easy as pie. Your bedroom was by the front door. I haven’t forgotten that. Who was supposed to be watching you? That hippie from next door who was so doped up she could never see straight? I bet she was passed out before your parents ever left the building. She was never going to check on you. Probably Julie and your dad didn’t either because of the search and all the worry. What happened, Cody? Were you with Charlie and Scott? Did you go out and find them?”
His eyes rest hard on Jess in a way that is probably supposed to intimidate her but doesn’t because she knows Cody Swift is a coward. “Were you with Charlie and Scott when you saw somebody doing something they shouldn’t have been doing? Yes! I’ve heard about that. I’ve heard it wasn’t poor old Sid Noyce that was a murderer. Did you see trouble coming? Is that what it was? Did you scarper before the man saw you and leave my boy and Scott behind to be hurt? Is that why you were running so hard and so fast? Because you left them there? Then you let Sidney Noyce go down for something he didn’t do?”
“You’re hysterical,” he says. “Calm down.”
She laughs. “You must think I was born yesterday. I can see in your eyes I’m right. Who else would be running for his life down Blackhorse Lane in a Magpies shirt that night? I saw you. Make no mistake. I know I did. I only hope you can live with yourself.”
“I hope you can live with yourself.” It’s a pathetic retort.
Jess stares at him as his cheeks flush. “Oh, I can live with myself, thank you very much,” she says. “And no thanks to you.” She uncrosses her legs and stands. She walks to the staircase and takes a step down, then turns back to him again. “I forgot!” she says. “There is one more thing I wanted to say.”
His face is a snarl.
“I’ve given an interview to the BBC. A very salable interview.” She checks her wristwatch. “In fact, it’s probably airing right about now.”
Cody Swift stands. His chair falls backward.
“You might start to hear from people in a few minutes,” Jess adds, “because I opened up to them about what we just discussed. It’s Time to Tell, I said to them! It’s time they knew who the real Cody Swift is. You’re going to be on everybody’s lips, my darling.”
“You c—”
“Oh, Cody!” Jess interrupts him. She puts a finger to her lips. “Language! And here was me thinking you had such lovely manners.”
A smile creeps across her face just as the blood is draining from Cody’s.
“Aren’t you afraid?” he asks. “Of what people might think of you? Of what Felix might do?”
“I’m not,” she says. “Finally. I’m not.”
Before Cody can find a single word to answer her, his phone begins to buzz and clatter. Notifications scroll across its screen. His computer pings and his landline rings just as the reception phones do downstairs. He looks from the screens to the landline to Jess and back again.
“In fact, you can give my regards to Felix,” Jess says over the noise of the phones, and as she makes her way down the staircase with her head held high, projecting all the elegance she ever learned to mimic, she thinks she might have just given the performance of her life. Out on the cobbles, she pauses to retie her trench coat tightly around her waist and she thinks, You deserve it, Cody Swift, you little shit.
As she crosses the car park, Erica watches her from the car. Jess smiles, raises her hand, and wiggles her fingers. Erica smiles and waves back. Jess takes a deep breath. It’s time, she thinks, for a very grown-up talk.
Acknowledgments
Warmest thanks to Helen Heller, Emma Beswetherick, Emily Krump, Liate Stehlik, Cath Burke, Jen Hart, Molly Waxman, Lauren Truskowski, Julia Elliott, Jeanie Lee, Aimee Kitson, Stephanie Melrose, Thalia Proctor, PFD agency, Camilla Ferrier, Jemma McDonagh, and the team at the Marsh Agency. Special thanks must go to Leo MacDonald, Mike Millar, and the whole crew at HC Canada, who gave me such a wonderful welcome, and also to the publishers, editors, and translators of the international editions of my books.
Thanks, too, to all the terrific sales teams and booksellers who we all depend on. To the book bloggers, readers, fellow authors, and other amazing bookish people I have had the pleasure of getting to know via social media: Thank you all. Your support and our interaction often make my day.
Special thanks to Elsie Lyons for the stunning cover design.
As ever, I relied on my two retired detectives to advise me on police procedure and other related things. Thank you both; you make such a difference.
On the home front, huge thanks to my writing partner, Abbie Ross, who makes everything more fabulous, always, and to my friends and family who unfailingly offer support and encouragement in so many ways. It means a lot.
Jules, Rose, Max, and Louis: You are the best support team. Thank you, love you, couldn’t do it without you.
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
* * *
Meet Gilly Macmillan
About the Book
* * *
Creating a Fictional Podcast
Questions for Discussion
Read On . . .
* * *
More from Gilly Macmillan
About the Author
Meet Gilly Macmillan
GILLY MACMILLAN is the bestselling author of What She Knew, The Perfect Girl, and Odd Child Out. She grew up in Swindon, England, and lived in Northern California in her late teens. She trained as an art historian and worked at The Burlington Magazine and the Hayward Gallery before starting a family. Since then, she has been a lecturer in photography and now writes full-time. She resides in Bristol, England.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
About the Book
Creating a Fictional Podcast
The idea to include a podcast in I Know You Know emerged from a conversation between my agent and me. I was planning a novel about a fictional cold case based very loosely on a real case I had read about, and I hoped to include a character who was the mother of a young murder victim. I wanted my fictional case to be an infamous one, which had sent shock waves through a community because it involved the murder of two children.
My agent and I were discussing the best way to tell the story. We asked each other questions: What if the victims’ best friend comes back to Bristol to look into the case twenty years later? What if he looks into it
partly because he wants to put some demons to rest but also because he wants to create his own true crime podcast? What if the podcast itself is cut through the book? That was an “Ooh!” moment. When both you and your agent get excited, you know you might be onto something.
I was already a regular listener of a wide range of true crime podcasts but had never tried to write anything like them before. True crime podcasts feed into my novels in many ways, not least in providing inspiration. For example, something a retired detective said in an episode of Australian True Crime gave me the idea for John Fletcher, the detective who plays a central role in I Know You Know.
As preparation, I revisited some of my favorite podcasts and studied how they were put together. Some were professionally produced and very slick. Others were more of a mom-and-pop production where sound and edit quality was patchy. Regardless of production quality, the podcasts I found most compelling were the ones that gave a voice to the people directly touched by the crime: victims, witnesses, law enforcement officers, suspects, and others. This format excited me, because I felt it could translate effectively into a novel, allowing me to introduce short direct quotes from a variety of characters.
The narrator of the podcast was important, too. I was especially intrigued by podcasts in which the narrator emerged as a character in their own right, so as the series progressed you could get a flavor of their personality and learn to trust them and understand what the investigation meant to them. An effective example of this is the first series of the Canadian podcast Someone Knows Something, where narrator David Ridgen returns to his childhood home to investigate an unsolved missing child mystery. Thoughtfully, Ridgen wove his personal story into the narrative. All of this gave me lots of inspiration for Cody’s approach to It’s Time to Tell and brought home how much of an editorial hand the creator of a podcast has in how they present a story.
I Know You Know Page 29